


The Man He Is

by indigowild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Pining Sherlock, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, post Mary & baby, somewhere post season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:26:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5180321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigowild/pseuds/indigowild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daytime Sherlock is very different from Nighttime Sherlock. The thoughts he tries to ignore in the sunlight can't be controlled in the dark privacy of his own room.</p><p>(He accepts these feelings, knows they are there, but believes it's the wrong time...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man He Is

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Man He Really Was](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4982566) by [indigowild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigowild/pseuds/indigowild). 



> This is my second stab at writing a Johnlock fic--it is the companion piece to The Man He Really Was. To ease myself into this new fandom, I decided to take a previous fic I wrote for Agent Carter's Daniel Sousa and rewrite it for our boys--just to help build my confidence with these new characters.
> 
> Any and all comments/critiques are welcomed. I'm agenttanha on tumblr.

Sherlock Holmes is not a good man.

Not that this fact would take anyone by surprise, of course, based on the general public’s reaction to him over the last 35 years. 

These days, however, for the first time in his life he finds himself wanting, truly wanting, to try to be a better one.

 ***

 When Mrs. Hudson comes home from hospital after her hip replacement surgery, Sherlock camps out on her sofa nightly for two weeks, violin at his side, weaving quiet melodies to take the place of the “herbal soothers” that are contraindicated with her pain medication. He plays all of her favorite songs, one after another, watching as the lines in her face slowly relax and she falls asleep.

 

***

"Daisies,” he mutters to Lestrade one night, seemingly apropos to nothing, as they bend over a pile of ashes at a crime scene. 

Lestrade startles out of his daydreaming, but before he can say anything, Sherlock continues.  

“Molly has a mild allergy to roses, and her mother used to call her Daisy when she was growing up. Gerber daisies—Shasta would be toxic to those cats of hers. She likes Italian food—I recommend a place called Angelo’s. I know the owner, can get you two a reservation for Friday at seven if you’d like.” 

Flustered, Lestrade nods in agreement, not even bothering to ask _How?!_

“I would suggest you call and ask her out before lunchtime tomorrow. The new lab tech spends approximately 82% of the time I’m there ogling Molly’s backside and is planning on inviting her to a movie and dinner when he gets his paycheck tomorrow.”

The selfie Lestrade sends of the two of them snuggled together on an after dinner London Eye ride and Molly’s giggled “Thank you” when he drops by the morgue to pick up some knee joints make Sherlock feel shyly pleased.

***

During the daylight hours, he tries so hard.

He limits his crime scene insults to scathing comments directed at no one in specific, and even then they are only at about 50% of their former levels of vitriol. Well, except for the rare occasion when someone truly deserves it, like the time one of the Yard’s new men refused to let John into a scene and asked if he had gotten his medical degree through the mail. He sets himself a strict deadline of 24 hours post case to show up at Lestrade’s office, completing the piles of tedious paperwork with a ruthless efficiency that now leaves John gaping and hurriedly gulping down his still scalding coffee when Sherlock slams his pen down on the desk and swirls out the door, tossing a “Come, John. Better things to do” over his shoulder.

A new mini fridge/freezer, designated specifically for Sherlock’s experiments with all the contents neatly packaged and labelled, brings a look to John’s face as if Christmas had come early. Clothing that was once flung haphazardly around the flat in a trail leading to Sherlock’s room now disappears as hangers are utilized, the bathroom hamper filled, and neat bundles from Marshall’s Laundry make regularly scheduled appearances where their overflowing joint laundry bag used to stand. A quiet arrangement with one of the more reliable members of his homeless network ensures that tea, milk, bread, and a few other basics are always on hand (not even for John can Sherlock endure the soul crushing idiocy that permeates every Tesco).

Under John’s steady guidance, Sherlock’s criterion for rating cases shifts. Clients that would have once been ranked a two or three with a “Boring” tossed in for good measure become sevens or eights. Now he observes not only the puzzles but the people behind them. On their faces he sees mirrored every emotion that gnawed at him after The Fall, the feelings that crushed him after his return: fear, despair, abandonment, loss, and grief. He is surprisingly ok with the realization that what he feels now is empathy.

***

But when it's late and his daytime armor of Belstaff, suit, and scarf are discarded...

When he falls into his bed after a case is done, exhausted and sore, and the darkness of the night blankets him...

Then, he is not a good man.

Not always.

Some nights, as he tries to lure his mind into sleep by reviewing the details of his day, the thoughts come, unbidden. Amidst images of dashing through alleys and blood stained crime scenes comes a flash of blue eyes or a ruffled tuft of blonde and silver hair. He immediately tries to block them out with thoughts of Mycroft’s monthly lecture on “responsibility, brother mine” or the way Anderson chews the caps of his cheap plastic pens into shreds. Usually this works, and he drops off into the protection of sleep, relieved.

It’s much too soon—Mary and the baby gone only eight months, he and John are still settling back into a familiar domesticity and a tentative rebuilding of their friendship. He won’t hope, **can’t** hope that there could ever be more than what they have now, that John could ever want him, want this. Because with hope comes risk, and when it comes to having John back at his side, no level of risk is acceptable.

But some nights when he's lying there almost too exhausted to drift off, a door in his Mind Palace swings open, unbidden. Carefully filed moments and images come flooding out, engulfing him in a restless heat.

John’s short, sturdy fingers holding his wrist steady as he cleaned out a deep gash on Sherlock’s forearm, thumb resting casually against his pulse. Their heat left paths that he swore he could sense even hours later. He feels traces of them tingling now.

The nape of his neck, the skin there somehow still retaining a hint of the desert sun. It begs to be licked and nibbled, kissed until goosebumps rise, like the ones spreading across Sherlock’s thighs as his eases his pajamas and pants down.

The traces of his scent, the sweetness of grocery store shampoo mixed with tea, cotton jumpers, and a light tang of sweat. It clung to Sherlock’s scarf after he wrapped it around John’s neck, trying to prevent the icy rain from sliding down the back of his rather inadequate jacket.He'd had to take shallow calming breaths the first time he had put it on after its return. Now he sucks in air with shaky inhalations.

The firm press of a chest against his back as John leaned over him to look at a detail on the schematic on Sherlock’s laptop, his warm breath puffing against his ear. He was grateful that the tea kettle’s whistle helped mask the small groan that escaped his lips as John headed back to the kitchen. In his nighttime world though, there is nothing to hide his quickening breath and sighs...and no need to.

A slight softness around John’s navel, peeking out from under his pajama top as he stretched, arms reaching for the ceiling, and yawned a “Mornin’.” Frozen, Sherlock’s eyes fixed upon abdominal muscles pulled tight, their strength still evident even under the resultant effect of his civilian lifestyle. He had slammed his eyes back against his microscope, staring blankly at a mold sample and hoping the flush spreading across his cheekbones was obscured by the apparatus. Now, in his mind's eye he lingered, his gaze sliding down the trail of pale golden hairs that disappeared under John’s pajama bottoms, down to the faint outline of his cock resting under the blue striped cotton. God, he ached.

His mouth, slightly chapped lips that could spread into the most welcoming smile, tongue darting out to brush along them when he was nervous, excited, or intrigued. One night, still giddy with the adrenaline of a chase and a glass of scotch from an appreciative client, John had stretched out in his armchair and taken a bite of Mrs. Hudson’s infamous Death by Chocolate cake. His head fell back, eyes fluttered shut, and he opened his mouth and let out the filthiest moan of satisfaction that Sherlock had ever heard. It was all Sherlock could do to not moan himself as he leapt to his feet, stammered something about needing a shower, and scurried to the safety of the bathroom. The sound echoes in his ears now, drowning out the rustling of his sheets and the cars on the streets outside. Sweat gathering along his forehead, his spine feels like it is on fire, a burning low in his gut.

Sherlock on his knees in front of John, bending down to undo the buckles pinning his legs and feet to the kidnapper’s chair, head bent and cheek brushing against a denim covered thigh. The moment slammed into him like a gut punch, a kaleidoscope of impressions exploding in his mind. The shiver running through John’s body, the musk of their sweat combining, Sherlock’s face just inches from his flies, muscles tensing in his legs, John chanting “Jesus, Sherlock,” hoarsely, their breathing still ragged and loud, his fingers racing over the straps. At the time he'd still been frantic with fear and so relieved at finding John, but now…

In the darkness, that is the moment he breaks against.

At night, Sherlock is not a good man.

Sometimes, he is just...

... a man.

 


End file.
